


The Courting of Winter

by AKnightOfAGoodKing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Backstory, Beauxbatons, Crossover, Durmstrang, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Magic, Muggle Culture, Nicknames, Non-Linear Narrative, Polygamy, Soulmates, Triwizard Tournament, Wooing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-02-02 21:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12734913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKnightOfAGoodKing/pseuds/AKnightOfAGoodKing
Summary: Napoleon Solo, seventh year Slytherin Head Boy, couldn't wait until he graduated. He believed Hogwarts was no longer big enough for him, enough to cure his boredom, and so he planned to travel and see what the rest of the world had to offer. He had expected his last year to pass quietly.But unexpected, Hogwarts was holding the Triwizard Tournament for the first time in decades. Napoleon had no interested, at first. Then he spotted more then just mere friendship in a German girl named Gaby and had his heart stolen by the icy blue eyes of a Russian boy named Illya.Maybe there was something else Hogwarts had to offer him.[DO NOT REPOST/REUSE MY WORK(S) WITHOUT MY ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND PERMISSION.]





	1. The Announcement

**Author's Note:**

> (this is my first harry potter crossover fic, and im very excited to see how this would turn out. i absolutely adore these three, and i really want to have napoleon and gabby dote on illya. thank you for reading. ^^)

Napoleon Solo, American transfer to the British branch of magic schools, House Slytherin, Head Boy. He was an attractive young man, sticky with his fingers and smooth with his tongue in more ways than one. He had that boyishly charming look that made the girls (and boys) fall in love, the perfect example of a classic handsome American man of the Hollywood era of the 60’s. In the past six years, he excelled in study, sport, and socialization, the center of attention whenever he was with just a smile. He had many friends, and everyone knew his name, whether it was an incoming first year or a resident of Hogsmeade. Ever since his arrival at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from the States, Napoleon Solo had just about everything a young man would want in his life.

However, all of this—this fame, these friends, the fun—weren't truly what Napoleon wanted. His popularity made him friends, but he knew that most wanted nothing but to satisfy superficial desires. Many of those who spoke to him, walked beside him, only wanted to appear as if they were good friends with him, because he was the token American, the heir to a global art empire, the future Head Boy no doubt. Even an _acquaintanceship_ with him would have some benefit in the end. His popularity made him friends, but his friends were not the kind he wanted to have for the rest of his life.

And the fun? The fun was being invited to all the parties, in and out of Hogwarts, with all the butterbeer and firewhiskey Napoleon could ever want. The fun was dating anyone and everyone, being the school playboy because the fun wasn't actually fun. Not for a long time. Instead the fun had became a social obligation, one that stemmed out from the fact that if he wasn't there, there would no doubt be someone looking for him, even when he didn't want it. As for _dating,_ no one person had lasted more than a week before Napoleon decided to cut his losses because he knew he would never feel a spark of any kind, though sometimes he wished there was. He was wasting both of their time if he lingered around any longer

So when his seventh year rolled around and he—of course—was awarded the title of Head Boy. Napoleon felt a sort of relief because soon, he could finally leave Hogwarts and England to disappear and hide around the world. He would be a full fledged wizard, education and all, and he would travel to see beautiful sights, women, men and art, not as _the_ Napoleon Solo but just Napoleon Solo. That thought alone was enough made the first few weeks of new school year pass quickly. Napoleon sailed through the social obligations and his study easily, not a dark cloud to come through to ruin his last journey.

Then soon it was the first of October, and many students were upset, Napoleon already knowing why. All Quidditch games were cancelled for the whole year, and the cancellation of just one game was enough to create a large uproar. Hogwarts had a mean streak against each other these past few years, Hufflepuff vs Slytherin and Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw. Again, Napoleon already figured out why, half the school already guessing based on the arrival of a giant ship from under the lake and a large carriage flown by pegasi by air.

“Napoleon,” Kaitlyn Rosenberg, a fellow seventh year Slytherin said, giving him a smile. Napoleon dated her once last year, and she was still trying to convince him that she was the one. “Why do you think Quidditch’s been canceled?”

Napoleon quirked up the corner of his lips, teasing her with a look as he took a slow bite from a red apple. “Surprises are best when they're surprises, Kaitlyn,” he said cryptically, to which Kaitlyn pouted in an attempt to look cute.

“Aw, Napoleon,” she replied, smiling again as she leaned forward across the table closer to him. “What if I told you I have a surprise waiting for you in my dorm?”

Napoleon chuckled. “Tempting,” he replied, giving her a wink, “but I have duties tonight, sweetheart. Your surprise is one I'll have to pass up on.”

“Shame,” Kaitlyn said, sitting back down. She had a disappointed frown but quickly replaced it with a smile again. “Next time then.”

Napoleon didn't reply to that, deciding it was enough teasing. He had told her last year, when he dumped her, that he was not a bit interested in her at all or will ever be, but she had yet to back down. He knew it was no good to lead her on, but this was just how Napoleon was, enjoying simple games of cat and mouse. It was a little funny to have others try to catch him, but he, the resident trickster, was quick and always had a mile between himself and the claws. Never had he had any reason to chase after anything, not when everything came to him on a metaphorical silver plate.

At 9 o’clock sharp, Headmaster Alexander Waverly—British, Ravenclaw Head Boy, former Head of the Aurors—stood up to the podium and tapped his wand against the wood, bringing silence immediately to the Great Hall.

“Evening, everyone,” Waverly announced, his voice carried across the room. He was a man who had aged gracefully into his sixties, still attractive enough for some students to have the clichéd school crushes on. He wore his robes like a proper gentlemen, just like Napoleon, and his glasses added to his charm and faux persona of a quiet man. “As all of you know, and protest, that this year, Quidditch has been cancelled. I've already heard complaints, half of which came from my own colleagues, but don't let your competitive spirit die just yet. In place of one tournament, this year, Hogwarts will once again be hosting the Triwizard Tournament, just like it did the last time almost thirty years ago. For those who do not know, the Triwizard Tournament is an ancient sports played amongst the schools of magic all over the world in which each is allowed one student to represent us in three games. The champion of this event will be honored and be glorious for the rest of their life with the addition of fifty thousand Galleons as the prize. So it is my honor to introduce to you first, the lovely students Beauxbatons Academy and their beautiful headmistress, Victoria Vinciguerra!”

And timed perfectly, the doors of the Great Hall burst open with the scent of lavenders and vanilla and lights of lilac and baby blue. In both entrances of the Hall, three separate groups of fourteen blue uniformed students—most of whom had gold colored hair—came walking in, elegant in their sarin flats. They took four precised steps before swinging their bodies forward with their hands, opening their gently clenched fist to let out small bluebirds that burst in the air into an explosion of sparkling lights. They continued to swing their bodies forward as they continued, skipping a few feet with the grace of a _prima belladonna_ before landing on their tippy toes and spinning around as they ran tiny steps backwards, blowing kisses into the air with their right hand then their left then again, until they reached the ends of the table, where they stopped and stood tall and beautiful, smiling as their eyes crinkled with mirth.

They took almost all the breath in the Great Hall away, all but Napoleon because his eyes were caught in the only Beauxbaton who had not a spark of content in her hazel eyes. No, instead she had a look in her eyes that the American knew very well. It was the look of boredom, and that alone made her the most intriguing to him. It did help that she was also very pretty with olive skin and the odd shoulder length brunette hair. Almost all of the Beauxbatons wore their hair down to almost their waist.

Without even thinking of any of the consequences or any the surprised looks from his schoolmates, when the bored Beauxbaton girl came close enough to see him, Napoleon beckoned her to sit next to him, something more than boredom in her eyes now.

Surprisingly, for both of them, she stopped, stepping away from the elegant dance, and stood before Napoleon with an graceful raise on her eyebrow, curiosity now mixed in with her boredom.

“If you ask for a lady to sit with you, you should at least make a seat for her,” the Beauxbaton brunette then said, looking at Napoleon as if he should notice his staring. He noted her accent, light, but he figured that she was not French like her school but more of an Eastern European origin.

Napoleon laughed, scooting over enough to give her space on his left. His housemate next to him quickly did the same with his urging. “Excuse my rudeness, pretty lady,” he said, patting to the now empty space. “Is this good enough for you?”

She took it without another word, and Napoleon casually slipped an arm around her waist, no protest or tension from the brunette. If anything, she seemed to relax in his hold, and for the first time, Napoleon felt a spark, bright and warm. He was sure Kaitlyn was glaring at them—other students merely gaping and staring—but he didn't care. He was feeling ecstatic about meeting this pretty brunette.

“I'm Napoleon Solo,” he introduced himself first, giving her a smile that would make any female melt under, but the brunette did nothing more than smirk, which was new.

She held his chin with her index and thumb, slowly tilting his head left and right to get a closer look at him. “Aren't you a charmer?” she asked rhetorically. “I bet you broke many hearts.”

Napoleon smiled. “Not as many as you, I bet.”

The brunette let out a small laugh. “My name is Gabrielle Teller,” she told him, letting go of his chin, “but call me Gaby.”

That made Napoleon smile even brighter. “We both are kind of risk takers, aren't we? I think I see your headmistress coming by. Miss Teller, you might soon be told off soon.”

As he spoke, Gaby only grinned as the Beauxbaton Headmistress walked on by, head held high with her chin up. Her hair was a pale gold tied up in a tight bun, which complimented her fair skin. She wore a sapphire dress that wrapped around her body like a glove, a small hat in the same shade and fabric tilted on the right on her head with a thin silver veil. Her lips were a deep red, and her jewelry were all pearls.

“Gabrielle,” the headmistress said as she walked by with a large presence.

“Headmistress Vinciguerra,” Gaby replied with not a hint of hesitation but her voice firm.

Vinciguerra said nothing else as she continued to walk like a model down the runway, but her piercing blue eyes looked back over the corner of her eye. Napoleon felt a slight pressure from that alone, but Gaby showed no fear.

“She's pretty,” Napoleon heard a housemate whisper, “but frightening too. It was like I was being crushed with a hammer.”

When the Beauxbaton Headmistress reached Waverly, they both exchanged pleasantries, lightly touching their cheeks against each other. “Headmistress Vinciguerra,” the British sage greeted the woman, “it's lovely to see you again.”

“The same can be said for you, Waverly,” Vinciguerra replied with a light smile. She turned to the everyone else in the Great Hall. “It’s a great honor for my students here and I to represent Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in this newly revived tournament. I wish the selected competitors the best of luck and may the champion win gracefully.”

Waverly and the professors were the first one to applaud the Headmistress, quickly followed by the rest of the Great Hall.

When the applauses quieted down, Vinciguerra stepped down from the podium to stand by her students. Waverly once again addressed the Great Hall. “As this is the _Triwizard_ Tournament,” he continued, featuring back to the doors of the Great Hall, “here comes the fine students of Durmstrang Institute and their Headmaster, Oleg!”

Once again, the doors of the Great Hall opened, but they were not blown open. Instead, the doors—magically closed after the Beauxbaton entrance—cracked opened, and a gray fog entered the Hall like a slithering snake as three separate armies of fourteen students dressed in thick black and dark maroon uniforms marched in, their expressions blank and stoic. They stepped in perfect unison, all carrying decorative daggers on their left hip.

Napoleon had never seen such an expressionless and well cogged machine before, finding all who came by to be dulled of life. Then he heard Gaby giggled, turning his attention to whom she had set her eyes on. When he saw the boy, the American silently praised the brunette's observate eyes and wonderful taste in men.

The boy, most likely in their year as well, was like a modern day Apollo, paler and more bland in color but just as exquisite. His hair was blond, just like Vinciguerra, but the way the light bounced off of his yellow locks made them shine like pale gold, and his expression blank, just like the rest of the Durmstrang army, but with one look at his eyes as blue as ice, Napoleon saw the wistful desire in them, something the American was also familiar to seeing. It was as if the somber Apollo did not want to be there, just like Gaby, but not because this was boring to him. He had the kind of wistful that clung onto fond memories and hoped of better, warmer days, and Napoleon wanted to give them to him.

“Isn't he beautiful?” Gaby whispered, mirth in her hazel eyes now as she looked at the back of the army for the blue eyed boy. For a moment, her smile was pursed, small as if to show that she had knowledge of the blond's wish. Then she smirked, loosening one of her flat with her other foot.

Just as the end of the army was about to march on by, Gaby lightly kicked her loosened flat towards them, successfully landing it a few steps on the side of the army before the blond who had caught Napoleon's eyes. The blue eyed boy was the only one to stop, picking up the blue satin flat, and he too stepped out, leaving the winter army.

“Miss Teller,” the blue eyed boy said politely when he came up to the brunette lady, flung shoe in hand. His voice was like him, strong and solid, and Napoleon could listen to him for hours. “Continue to fling your shoe and you will lose them all.”

Gaby laughed, lifting out her naked feet towards the blond. “But I won't,” she replied with a smile. “Not when I have my prince charming to return it to me.”

The blond sighed in slight exasperation, but he knelt down on one knee and put the flat back on the Beauxbaton girl’s foot, moving as if this was the thousandth time this has happened. “I see that you ran off with date again,” he said, looking at Napoleon with dislike and distrust.

Napoleon shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the blond. “Not a date,” the American quickly said, dismissing any idea that the other boy might have made. “I'm actually a friend of Gaby’s, a close friend.” It may have been a lie then, but it certainly wasn't going to stay one for long.

“I'm Napoleon Solo,” the Head Boy introduced himself again, extending his free hand out.

The Durmstrang student looked at his hand for a moment. “American,” he stated, noting the accent and the gesture. The blond accepted the later, giving Napoleon a firm handshake. “Illya Kuryakin. It's . . . nice to meet you, Cowboy.”

Napoleon blinked at the nickname, paying extra attention to the rough calluses on Illya’s hand. Again, he felt a spark between the two of them, much different from the one with Gaby—overwhelming and wanting to burst—but just as important he knew.

“It's nice to meet you too,” Napoleon replied with his most charming smile. He made a mental note to repay the other boy back with a nickname in return soon.

Their meeting was interrupted when a sharp voice called for the blue eyed boy with a harshness like an icy blizzard. “ _Kuryakin,_ ” an old bald man said, icy eyes just as blue as Illya’s but bore an indifference instead. Napoleon guessed that he was Headmaster Oleg—no last name—and instantly came to dislike the man. “This is not time to play around.”

Illya nodded, glancing at the floor with his hands behind his back. “My apologies, sir,” he replied with a bit of shame.

Oleg nodded towards where the rest of the Durmstrang students were at the end of the Hall. “Get back in position.”

“Yes, sir,” the blue eyed boy said, quickly doing as he was told without a look back at Gaby or Napoleon.

Napoleon felt very disappointed that his somber Apollo had left, ignoring what Oleg had to say about the tournament. The competition itself didn't interest the American one bit, and by the boredom Gaby showed, she didn't care for it either.

“I don't like that man,” Gaby said quietly.

“We share the same sentiment,” Napoleon agreed, “but I do like the boy. He makes me wish I was a lady just so he'd kiss my hand.”

Gaby laughed. “Isn't he beautiful?” she asked again, to which Napoleon nodded. “Once we graduate, I'm going to steal him from those dreary mountains and keep him in Rome. That boy is mine since the day we met, and I won't let Oleg stand in my way.”

Napoleon couldn't help but laugh. “I hope you don't mind some healthy competition, Gaby. I'd like to make him mine too.”

Gaby smirked, eying Napoleon in acceptance to his challenge. “It's been seven years since we met,” she told him, “and I've had many _healthy competitions_. I have yet to lose.”

“Yet,” Napoleon repeated, thinking about just how his life had turned around that night as Gaby laughed.


	2. Like Mint and Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (should update this now someone said they like the idea. thank you. ^^)

Gaby was running through the halls of Hogwarts, all of which she had already memorized, and she didn't care for the surprised glances from Hogwarts students to see a lovely _Beauxbaton_ running. or the disapproving glares from her fellow Beauxbatons for _running_ in the halls. It didn't matter to her when she first entered the Academy, and it didn't matter to her now that she was in her last year.

Though she had friends and met many kind people at Beauxbaton, the German never truly felt in place at the Academy for Magic, mostly because she missed the mechanics garage her Muggle scientist of a father had kept when he was alive, before he was killed by an escaped Death Eater. She never knew her mother, but as she inherited her father's intellect, Gaby inherited magic from her.

Gaby’s mother died from complications during birth, which could have easily been remedied with magic, but her mother gave up the wizarding word and her wand to live in Muggle Germany with her father. Gaby’s father raised her on his own for five years before he was murdered by the killing curse because he created formulas and inventions to mix the potency of magic with the efficiency of Muggle machinery. The escapee Death Eater came to him for information, her father gave him everything he had—detailed drawings and journals of explanations—and her father still died.

It was only because of her uncle that the escapee was quickly caught and Gaby was left in the government system. Alexander Waverly was her mother's older brother, the head of a well-off and well-education wizarding family in London. He had cast an enchantment over the Tellers’ Manics Shop in order to honor his sister's dying wish for him to watch over the family she left behind. When the escapee broke into the shop after hearing too close to the rumors, Alexander came as quickly as he could, but it was too late when he arrived.

Mr. Teller was lying lifeless on the floor with the escapee standing over him with a stolen wand, and Gaby was kneeling beside her father's body, sobbing for him to open his eyes.

In a quick movement, Alexander skillfully knocked the escapee with a spell, and he gently lifted little five year old Gaby up from her dead father. _“I'm sorry, dear,”_ her uncle whispered, hugging closely as Gaby buried her face into his shoulders. _“I'm so sorry.”_

She did not respond but continued to cry, and Alexander did what he thought was best. With another flick of his wand, he set the entire garage shop on fire, letting the flames eat the memories the last of his sister's memories, save for Gaby herself. There was a crack in the area when they disappeared, escapee as well, and they stood inside the walls of the Ministry of Magic.

The busy employees of the Ministry were shocked at the sight of the former Head of the Aurors carrying a young child in his arms and the escapee at his feet. There was another crack in the air when he left, taking only Gaby with him to the small estate the Waverly family had lived in for generations.

From then on, Alexander raised Gaby like his own daughter, spending the next several years in his retirement to teach his niece all about the wizarding world and some formal education. With her father’s intellectual, learning was never difficult, and with her mother's magic and blood, she was gifted with the art. By the time she turned eleven, Gaby was already knowledgeable in many subjects of magic, especially in potions, Muggle studies, and charms.

It was then that Alexander came out of retirement to be the next headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where Gaby believed she would go to. However, later on, he would tell her that he was sending her to Beauxbatons Academy for Magic instead, which angered Gaby greatly.

_“That’s not fair, Alexander!” Gaby shouted, wanting to throw something at her uncle. “We live in England! I should be going to Hogwarts! Not some school in **France**!”_

_“ **Gabrielle** ,” Alexander said sternly, “the matter is already settled. You'll go to Beauxbatons whether you want to or not. It's a fine school, just as good as Hogwarts and excels greatly in charms and potions.”_

_“But you went to Hogwarts and you're one of the best charmers and potioneers!”_

_Alexander gave her a hard look, which stopped Gaby from saying anymore. It did not help that she was ready to burst into tears, her throat tightening in frustration._

_“I'm doing this to honor one of your mother's last wishes, Gabrielle,” her uncle told her, sighing in defeat that this may be the only way to convince her to accept the transfer. “Yes, I went to Hogwarts, but your mother went to Beauxbatons. France was where she met your father. She wanted you to experience the part of her life that were her most happiest. I promised to protect you and your father, but I already failed her on that. Please, Gabrielle.”_

_Tears that threatened to spill from her hazel eyes finally spilled, and Gaby began to cry, feeling frustrated of wanting to help her uncle keep his promises and anger for being part of it. That was when she met Illya for the first time, when the large fireplace in the living room came to life with a burst of green flames._

_In the soot of the brick fireplace, there stood two people. Oleg was showing the first signs of balding back then and dressed warmly, but his expression was still indifferent and almost mocking when he saw Gaby. But Gaby only cared that there was a boy her age age with him. She cared because she didn't want some boy to see her cry like this._

_“Have I come at the wrong time, Waverly?” Oleg asked tonelessly._

_“In a way, yes, you did, Oleg,” Alexander answered, looking displeased, “but since you're already here, stay. Gabrielle, why don't you take little Illya to play in the garden while Mr. Oleg and I talk?”_

_Gaby didn't reply, opting for silence as she quickly did as her uncle asked, and took Illya by the hand out to the garden in the back. The boy didn't make a sound despite her harsh grip, and he didn't say anything when she let go of his hand and started walking in the garden, not paying attention to any of the flowers or trees or Illya himself as she tried to control her crying and frustration._

_She walked a little faster when she noticed that the boy was following her. “Go away,” she muttered, angry._

_“Why are you crying?” the blue eyed boy asked, his voice quiet as if he rarely spoke. “Angels must be dying if pretty girl like you is crying.”_

_“I'm not crying,” Gaby denied, wiping away her tears._

_“You don't have to lie, Gabrielle,” he said, using her name. “There's no ears in walls. I won't tell. I have no one to tell.”_

_Gaby stopped, sparing a glance at Illya before crossing her arms and glaring her anger at the ground. “I want to go to Hogwarts,” she told him, “but my uncle is sending me to Beauxbatons because my mother wanted me to.”_

_“Are you fighting your mother?”_

_Gaby shook her head. “My mother is dead.”_

_“Ah,” Illya voiced out, awkwardly taking a hold of Gaby’s hands in his. “My . . . . my mother is dead too, Gabrielle. There's not one day that goes by without me thinking of her.”_

_Gaby looked up, taking a closer look at Illya, who was an inch or two shorter than she was at this age with almost pale skin and icy blue eyes, which had red and swollen eyelids. Like he hadn't slept right since this mother died. She could not help but feel a little pity for the boy, because he knew his mother before she died. Gaby never did. All she had to mourn for was the prospect of having a mother. The boy mourned for his mother._

_“But it's not end of world, you know,” Illya continued his eyes flickering from maintaining contact with hers and the flowers behind her. “You’ll live through another day. I know you will.”_

_He gave her a hesitant smile, small. Gaby guessed that he had rarely smiled these days, not sure how long ago his mother had died, but it was enough to stop her tears. “You're a sweet boy, Illya,” she said, leaning forward to place a kiss of gratitude on his pale cheek. A light blush warmed up his face, but he had yet to let go of her hand. “Call me Gaby,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Only Alexander calls me Gabrielle.”_

_Illya laughed a tiny laugh. “Okay, Gaby,” he said, trying her preferred nickname on his tongue._

_“I'll go to Beauxbatons,” Gaby said, a mischievous smile growing on her face, “but promise me two things, Illya?”_

_“What might that be?” Illya asked carefully._

_“That you'll write to me and that you'll have no other girl before me.”_

_Again, Illya blushed, taking in the weight of her words, before nodding. “Okay.”_

From that moment on, Illya was Gaby’s and Gaby’s only, whether he was in Durmstrang for the school year or visiting during breaks. The German made a bargain with Alexander that she would go to the Academy if and only if she and Illya were allowed direct transportation to each other while out of school. Alexander was uneasy about the condition, but after some discussion with Oleg, the deal was struck.

And over the years, Illya kept his promises. When ever she wrote, he wrote back, whether it was a detailed letter or a mundane note, and the process would repeat all over again, both smiling from their end. As for no other girls before her, Gaby knew it was quite selfish because Illya had grown handsome, intelligent, strong and solemn over the years—qualities most popular with Durmstrang girls—but to know that her winter boy had continued to think of her was amazing and it made her feel as if she was very special in the world just because Illya thought her so.

It was during their third year that Illya began to address her as his Chop Shop Girl after telling him about her father’s mechanic garage. She would always smile when he called her that.

Thinking back, Gaby was sure Illya would be hers and she is his, but the existence of one Napoleon Solo had somewhat changed an aspect of her possessiveness of her blue eyed boy in that she felt not a bit jealous or envious when Napoleon looked at Illya. Unlike everyone else who was drawn towards Illya, Napoleon looked at Illya like one would look upon the subject of a masterpiece, like soft light shone above him, centering him in the middle of the world. She liked the way Napoleon looked at Illya because it was like seeing herself look at Illya.

The idea of sharing Illya was never something Gaby ever thought of, but three weeks in Hogwarts, she and Napoleon were as thick as thieves, a rare person that the German would call her friend. She liked him and he liked her, but not in the way they both liked Illya.

Running through the halls of Hogwarts, Gaby rushed into the opened doors of the Great Hall, only five minutes late to the start of breakfast, to find that Napoleon already managed to snatch Illya before the former could go eat with a fellow Durmstrang student.

Gaby slowed down as she came closer, hearing Napoleon create a casual conversation on Muggle art, a topic that all three of them knew. They all have had studied or read up on many Muggle subjects and were well versed enough to have discussions and debates.

She slipped herself on Illya’s empty right side. “Good morning,” Gaby greeted, picking up a basket of sliced bread for her plate. “I prefer the beauty of Degas’ ballerinas, Napoleon.”

“You break my heart, Gaby,” Napoleon said with a frown. “Monet is equal to anything Degas did, but his work with all colors except for black makes his feel fleeting and makes you wish that you have seen what he saw before it disappeared.”

“But ballerinas Degas immortalized in his paintings does same,” Illya countered. “And he stood against trend of impressionists of his days by using darker colors and shades. Somber tone in his paintings makes them realistic more than nostalgic.”

Napoleon frowned again. “Why does it feel as if our discussions are always two to one, mainly you two against me?” he asked, mocking hurt. “What battle shall I have to fight before I no longer stand alone?”

Illya shrugged. “What subject would one of us agree with you on?”

Gaby giggled, feeling that Illya had fallen into a trap set by Napoleon, who was more than pleased.

“I know,” the American smoothly said, playfully placing a hand on top of the Russian's. “Gaby and I can both agree on the subject of you, that you’re very beautiful.”

Illya furrowed his eyes in uncertain confusion, pulling his hand away from Napoleon’s touch. “What are you talking about, Cowboy?” he asked, sounding a little irritated. “Do you think you're being funny?”

Gaby slipped her arms to encircle Illya by his arm, leaning on him as she gave him a smile. “He isn't wrong, Illya,” she told him. “You’re very beautiful with your gold leafed hair and your ice blue eyes. Not a gem but a creature of the day that belongs with the sun.”

Illya looked uncertain, a light blush on his face. “You're spewing poetry, Chop Shop Girl.”

“Because you're such a wonderful inspiration. Right, Napoleon?”

Napoleon noticed the opening Gaby created for him in order to get back from Illya’s irritation. Boldly, the American reached for Illya’s hand again, lacing their fingers together and held the back of the Russian's hand up so that he could start tracing fair skin as he looked gleefully into Illya’s eyes.

“ _For where thou art, there is the world itself, and where thou art not, desolation,_ ” the American quoted elegantly, which made the pink on Illya’s face deepen a shade.

Gaby could not help but feel playful, wanting to continue showering Illya with poetry, and she let out a laugh. “ _Summer without you is as cold as winter,_ ” she added with a chuckle. _“Winter without you is even colder.”_

“Are you happy now, Cowboy?” Illya asked, embarrassed. “This battle is now you two against me.”

Napoleon chuckled, pressing his lips lightly against the back of Illya’s hand as a soft kiss. “Not a battle, Illya,” he assured, pressing the hand against his cheek affectionately. “A truce, Gaby? We work so much better together than against each other.”

Illya sputtered, turning to Gaby in disbelief, but the German herself was thinking on Napoleon’s suggestion. Her possessiveness over Illya did not want to share him with Napoleon, but she thought about it, about the prospect of losing her winter boy to the American, leaving her heartbroken and alone. The last month with Napoleon had soften her stance however, because she felt something between herself and the raven, like a fire that came to life from the first moment they touched. There was a connection between them, she could feel, and the warmth was something she did not want to lose. Illya would be her one and only love, but Napoleon was also one of the Illya’s love. Gaby felt no qualms of sharing that title with the American. She loved Napoleon and Napoleon loved her, and they both were in love with Illya.

“A truce, Solo,” Gaby agreed, and Illya pursed his lips in a pout, glancing away as his cheeks colored wonderfully.

Gaby heard Napoleon chuckle, a low and charming sound that reminded her of the whirring of a drill. She laughed along as she leaned over and kissed her winter boy on his strong chin, lifting her lips momentarily to pepper even more on his pale skin.

“Stop it, Chop Shop Girl,” Illya said in warning, but he made no effort to push her away. A few seats down the table, there was a loud wolf whistle and cheers from the Durmstrang student.

Gaby hummed, a quirk of her lips as she moved one hand to grasp the Russian by his jaw, and she closed her eyes, pressing her lips against his, softness against lightness. It was splendid, as if the world froze in that very moment so that she could take the time to memorize the feeling of the coldest season, the air freezing as snow fell from the sky. When they parted, the breath they shared was like ice, a small chill, the first sign of a long winter, tasting fresh and like mint. He tasted like Yule.

She opened her eyes, a gleam in her hazel eyes, and saw Illya blinking silently, his expression uncertain and in disbelief of what happened. Pink now dusted his face as he became shy in movement, covering his mouth with one hand as the other unconsciously rubbed his nape.

“My turn, yes?” Napoleon asked innocently, raising a suggestive eyebrow. Illya made a move to get up, thinking Napoleon wanted to kiss Gaby, but she knew better, keeping her winter boy seated with a tug of his cloak.

Napoleon shook his head, winking in gratitude to Gaby, and leaned closer into Illya’s space. “As much as I adore dear Gaby,” the American said, holding Illya’s face still by the chin, “I meant you, my somber Apollo.”

Gaby nearly squealed in glee as she watched Napoleon take his turn, kissing her winter boy as the American pulled them together. If it was anyone else, the German would have been gone into a jealous rage, vowing to take her revenge on the one who dare to touch her blue eyed blond. Gaby would have risked expulsion in order to use all her skills and knowledge of magic to destroy that person. But not Napoleon. Napoleon was her friend, her fellow competitor, her ally, her soulmate. Oh, that was the word. _Soulmates._

Gaby read about that once, and yet she could not think of a better word to describe what Illya and Napoleon were to her. She certain of that, or at least in this universe. They were different soulmates, and of different calibers. Illya, since the day they met, will forever be her Eros, and Napoleon her dearest friend.

When the two broken apart, Gaby looked at them with tenderness, Napoleon smirking as he winked at Illya, and her winter boy looking as if he lost his breath.

For a moment, Illya did nothing but blink, seeming forever shocked. Then, in a split second of clarity, he shot up and got out of his seat, much to Gaby’s displeasure. Her winter boy quickly and silently packed away all his things, and then she saw it, the dust of pink spreading throughout his entire body.

He was embarrassed, Gaby thought, smiling as she and Napoleon watched Illya escape. She enjoyed teasing the blond; something about his stern yet at times shy nature brought out her desire to have fun.

“You're both fools,” Illya stated, shuffling his bag over his shoulder and walking out of the Great Hall. At the doorway, he looked back at them once and then disappeared into the halls.

“It was like kissing winter,” Gaby said out loud, sharing this with Napoleon.

She turned her head when she heard the American bark out a laugh. “Like mint and winter,” Napoleon said.


	3. The Champions

Hogwarts was nothing like Durmstrang, Illya decided the moment he stepping into the castle grounds. The entire country was nothing like Durmstrang because Durmstrang was in a cold place, snow covering every inch outside. Durmstrang, on the inside, was warm, torches heating up the halls every four feet, and there were always muttering and conversing there because everyone would be walking to classes in warm halls instead of near freezing grounds. Hogwarts was nothing like Durmstrang, Illya decided, because Hogwarts was not home. That was what Durmstrang was to Illya, his only home since the death of his mother.

It had been a month since he arrived there, and many times, Illya missed Durmstrang, yearning to go back to the land of his father's ancestors. He missed the thick snow on the ground, his soldier-like schoolmates who friendly mocked each other earnestly while marching instead of walking, the crass yet protective professors who spoke with such strictness but would affectionately pat students on the back for a good demonstrations. He missed the familiarity of home.

But at times, Illya didn't miss Durmstrang. Hogwarts was _warm_ , the kind of warmth that even a hundred enchanted fire torches couldn't produce, and there was just so many things to see since it never truly snowed there, allowing for free range throughout the grounds. There was a deadly moving willow tree and a giant squid. The halls of Hogwarts were huge, unlike Durmstrang’s stony walls that seemed at times were confining. However, the greatest distraction to his homesickness was seeing Gaby again after a cold month into the semester and meeting Napoleon, however irritating and charming he could get.

Then, when his homesickness called again for him again, Illya could almost curse his entire existence for knowing the two because they seemed to like him very much, showering him with affection and gentle touches, warm and plenty. Their attention towards him made Illya feel guilty because he would never be able to return the favor in kind, because he was bad luck.

Illya would never forget his mother. His father, his father was a kind man, she told Illya when he was young, but he was also a dead man. Dead because there was always harsh times in the land of winter. Illya’s father was just one of many who were caught in the motherland’s harshness, never to return and leaving behind wife and child before Illya was born three weeks later. His mother was all that left for Illya, his father’s kin dead or far away, and she was his world.

His mother was a beautiful woman, hair a lighter shade of gold and her eyes were the blue Illya inherited. He inherited much of his father's physique, but it was his mother who raised him so his nature was molded into a kind and gentle sort. She told her son of the magical world, of how a noble blood ran through their veins but her squib father was cast out during adulthood and married a nice, homely Muggle woman. His mother told him that she believed that her son inherited the dormant magic in their blood, and she was right.

But Illya wished she was wrong because she started dying, and it was all his fault. You see, his mother was a hardworking woman, honest and pleasant, and her greatest love was for her son. In order to provide for the two of them, she had turned to prostitution during the harsh times of winter, and when Illya was ten, she fell ill. For months, Illya could only watch his mother as she got sicker and sicker until she finally died in her bed, tears streaking down her cheeks.  _“I'm sorry, my darling son,”_ her last words to him. _“Forgive your mother for leaving you so soon. I love you, my sweet Illyusha.”_

Illya curled up by his dead mother’s side for two days, crying himself into exhaustion many times, before an Aurora apparated into their small home. The Aurora had come to investigate the working of magic around the area, disturbing magic that caused birds to fall dead mid-flight, trees to rot and fall, and snow to blow harshly under thick black clouds. This would have not been the first time any of these happened in the area around Illya’s home, but the Wizarding World could not help but notice a sudden spike of those events in two days.

The Auror was shocked, and one week later, Illya met his granduncle for the first time. His granduncle was not old, but he was not young either. He was the uncle of Illya’s mother by her father, the first of two sons. Oleg was the younger son, and he was head of the family, last living relative of his mother left.

_“So you're boy who killed his mother,” was the first thing Oleg said to Illya with little interest. “We’ll see to it that you'll control your powers soon. You will call me Oleg. Your room is located on first floor, second door to right. You'll wake up everyday with sun and sleep at midnight. You'll be given lessons in order to catch up with other magical children your age. More lessons will be added afterwards to give you advantage and make you stand out from rest of your schoolmates. More will be explained to you later when time comes. Do you have any questions, boy?”_

_Illya only stared up at his granduncle’s face, blinking a few times before he spoke. “I killed Mama?” he asked, his lips chapped. “What do you mean by that?”_

_Oleg huffed, unamused. “Your father never told you?”_

_“He died before I was born.”_

_Oleg huffed again. “Kuryakins, they're Romani. Gypsies are not born with magic but in tuned with it, walking on grass and dirt and using old earth magic talisman. Gypsy blood ever rarely mix with magic, and when it does, child brings bad luck, peril to lives of others. That's why they were always prosecuted, belong to neither magic nor non-magic communities. You're bad luck, boy.”_

_Illya felt that he was crying. He wanted Mamma._

Now, eight years later, and Illya could still remember that day when he first met Oleg. Now he was at Hogwarts, sitting at the edge of the lake in the hour between his potions class and his history class, staring out into the horizon, his blue eyes dull as he thought back into the past as he so often do. But then his thoughts shifted back to the present, to Gaby who he promised himself to and the American who dropped in his live out of nowhere.

It was a few days ago that the both of them had kissed Illya that morning, and still, he was embarrassed at the memory of it. Yet he was yearning for more, remembering how they tasted, like the warmer seasons.

Gaby, beautiful Gaby, was like spring, fresh and cool. Her lips were soft like her laughter, and it was as if she breathed life into him when their lips touched. She was sweet nectar, and he was a mere bee, willing to drown in her. And Napoleon, handsome Napoleon, was like summer, whose sole purpose was to give off heat. Their kiss was just that, and the blood in Illya’s veins seemed to run faster and smoother because of it, defrosting his entire body from a lifetime of snow.

Right, after Potions, he was hiding from them, settling in the astronomy tower because he had made a game of them always trying to find him. He liked their company, but he would not easily give them his. Whoever found him first if either did, he would go sit with.

And it seemed that the tower was a good place as it was almost dinner, and Gaby, or Napoleon, would have found him an hour ago. It could possibly be that it was Halloween _,_ but Illya never paid attention to those kind of things. He was also guilty of focusing on the essays that all the Hogwarts professors seemed to decided to have due the same short period of time. But it was fine, he thought, it wasn't like he would get picked anyway. He'd hear about the news later when he went to the Durmstrang guest dorms. If Napoleon got upset by that sentiment, Illya supposed he would have to bribe the American with some sweets from Hogsmeade when students were free to go on a regulated schedule.

“Illya! Illya! Where are you?”

Ah, they finally found him, their presence announced by the door excitedly pushed open, handsome smiles and beautiful grace. Oh, Merlin, he was falling in love, wasn’t he? “There you are,” Napoleon said first. He immediately pulled Illya up by the arm. “It’s almost time for dinner. They’re going to announce the champions for the tournament.”

“I thought you didn’t care for tournaments,” Illya noted.

“We’re actually going for me,” Gaby said, clutched at Napoleon’s arm. “My school has been cheering on Alya as the Beauxbatons champion. And I’m curious about the other schools as well.”

“Come on, Illya,” Napoleon urged, holding out his free arm.

Illya huffed. “Alright,” he said, walking out with them.

And as usually, with Napoleon's charm and Gaby’s beauty making way, the three shared seats together side-by-side. Illya listened for the most part as he observed the way the other two interacted with the other students, speaking only when spoken to. Somehow, Gaby and Napoleon decided not to push him to socialize. It had only been a month, and the American was already reading him as well as the Chop Shop Girl. Perhaps he was becoming predictable?

About an hour and a half later, a light tapping vibrated throughout the Great Hall, and the chattering died down as heads turned towards the podium. Waverly was already up, his wand gently hitting against the wood. Behind him, the Tournament Cup was still ablazed, swishing as if a breeze came through.

“Happy Halloween, everyone,” the Headmaster spoke, smiling delightfully. “And this is the moment we all have been waiting for: the announcement of our Triwizard Champions!”

The Hall bursted out into cheers and applause, excited as they waited in anticipation. Waverly waved up a hand, silently drawing for a name.

And the Goblet sparked in red, green, blue and yellow, letting out tiny fireworks as small fire shot up into the magicked sky. A star fell back down and landed daintily onto Waverly’s outreached hand. The Hall was tense as they watched him open the burnt edged piece of parchment.

“From Hogwarts, Mandisa Obasanjo!”

Everyone cheered as Katherine, seventh year Ravenclaw Prefect, got up, smiling like there was no tomorrow. Her friends pushed her towards the professors gesturing her to come over. She looked like she was about to explode with school pride, the best willing candidate to represent all of Hogwarts.

“Mandisa!” people shouted. “Go, Ravenclaw!”

Cheers quiet down when she disappeared into the back room, escorted by Professor Flitwick who held out an arm for her like a gentleman.

Again, Waverly held out a hand, and the Goblet sparked in lilac and baby blue, shooting another star into the sky. “From Beauxbatons, Alya Mikhail!”

And again, the Hall cheered, and all of Beauxbatons stood up in congratulations, Headmistress Vinciguerra leading as the prime example. There was a sharp smile on her face, clapping her hands softly and very ladylike.

Alya disappeared into the back room with the Headmistress, and everyone was anxious about the last champion.

One more time, Waverly held out an hand, and the Goblet sparked crimson and forest green, shooting the last star into his hand. Everyone held their breath.

“From Durmstrang, Illya Kuryakin!”

And all the last tensions flooded out in great cheer, the closest Durmstrang students throwing a small pieces of fruits at their champion in light jealousy but genuine camaraderie. “Show them who's winner, Kuryakin!” a gruff voice shouted.

Illya was surprised. He didn't expect to be selected, but the Goblet had picked him. He had to go with the other champions.

Gaby held him back when he stood up, a look of concern on her face. “You entered, Illya?” she asked in light disbelief.

“What the hell?” Napoleon cursed under his breath. He couldn't believe it too. “Why?”

Illya cleared his throat, pulling Gaby’s hand from his robe. There was a light blush on his face. “I'm man too,” he explained weakly. “And men show their best traits when they're trying to woo.”

And he left it at that, leaving Napoleon and Gaby speechless. His face remained red as he walked towards the backroom, the cheer not yet dying down as people began to speak excitedly about the tournament.

He resisted the urge to look back in order to spare his dignity.

.

.

.

“Gaby, dear, catch me because I'm swooning.”

“Wha— Napoleon!”


	4. King Illya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (hehe, just a small thing for something i haven't posted in _six_ months, lmao.)

For a few days after Halloween, Illya suffered a lot of teasing when his schoolmates annoyed him into why he entered in the first place. Everyone from Drumstrung thought he was uninterested and wanted only to study. Illya wanted to be a curse breaker because he wanted to see the world. 

"I'm courting,” Illya confessed, the only one sitting down because two of his friends grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him onto a big red armchair. "I am man, and men should be courting."

"Kuryakin, you are man!” Dimitri shouted in boyish glee, flexing his arms in show of friendly mockery. "There's no doubt pretty girl Teller will become your wife."

"Teller?" Christovich repeated, looking doubtful. "I thought he was in love with skinny Head Boy Solo? Did you not tell me, Illya?" 

"You are man!" Anya said, laughing loudly. She smacked Illya on the arm, hard. "You court both! Why, our champion is like king!"

"King, king, king!" the whole dorm shouted, and there was a loud cheer, the night getting rowdy. 

"Someone get king water!" someone shouted. "We party like we have no classes tomorrow!" 

In an instant, there was a party in the borrowed Durmstrang dorm, and there was alcohol being handed out to everyone. The youngest, the fourth years, were hopefully only thinking of getting one for the night, or _else_. Dimitri handed Illya a small bottle of Firevodka, so much stronger that the native British Firewhiskey. Illya had no answer as to how possibly something from back home got to Hogwarts. 

"I owl'd my big brother back home," Anya said, answering the concerned look on Illya's face. "He's charm maker. Hogwarts has nothing on him."

And that was good enough for Illya, who shrugged and ripped the bottle open. He took a big sip of it, and laughed, relaxing since after the announcement. Dimitri and Christovich cheered, taking a big sip of their own. 

"Win for Durmstrang, king," Christovich said, his voice strong and clear despite the growing noise. "Win for loves of your life."

Illya groaned. "I regretting telling you anything," he said, taking slow sips. "You are troublemakers. Big waste of my time."

"Oh, shut your mouth, Ilya," Anya said, snatching Dimitri's bottle to take her first drink. "We've been good friends for last three years. We know all about Teller, so spill about Solo. He's pretty too, don't you think?" 

Dimitri rolled his eyes, stealing his bottle back. "Not as pretty as Teller," he argued. "Teller's smart girl, and graceful, but though she looks soft, she is like ferocious bear. Powerful woman." He nodded in approval.

"So is Solo, Dimitri. He has charm and lovely smile. Makes all the girls in class daydream. And he's Hogwarts Head Boy, leader of prefects here. He's successful and is like snake."

"Don't we strangle snakes?" Christovich joked, but Illya glared at him anyway, in warning. "Relax, Illya. If there's anyone to strangle Solo,  _I_ wouldn't be one doing it. He might like it if you do." He gave his friend a wink. 

Illya looked in away in half-disgust and half-cringe, but he liked the idea of holding Napoleon by the neck to kiss and caress. 

"Do you think Teller likes to command?" Dimitri asked, because out of all of them, he had a slight crush on her from all the conversations he had with Illya about her.

Illya, of course, knew, but he also knew nothing would come out of it because Gaby had rejected many,  _many_ boys for him. He didn't worry because Gaby promised she was his, and Dimitri was one of his closest friends. They both knew if they had to, they'd fight it out with wands and fist, and from the last wrestling match they had, Illya was still the one on top. 

"Or do you think she's quiet and meows like cat?" Anya added, cackling. She traced a finger down Illya's neck, blinking in seduction. "I can do too, Illya."

"And I'd have to answer to Nonna," Illya said, pushing her hand away. "There's Baba Yaga blood in her."

"Oh, Illya, are you afraid of tiny, cute girlfriend Nonna?" 

"No. I am merely cautious."

"Good." Anya gave him a wink.

"Enough talking," Christovich said, casting magic to play music loudly in the dorm, and people cheered.  _"Bierkastenrennen!"_

This time, Durmstrang exploded to the point that Illya believed their soundproof magic couldn't take it and leaked out some of the noise. Christovich pulled Illya to feet by the collar. "You play too," he said with a grin, and the night disappeared in blurs and laughter. 

.

.

.

If almost every Durmstrang student looked like they were going to destroy the sun for merely existing, Napoleon going to be mum about it because they both looked like they were doing better and worse than any hungover Hogwarts student. 

He shook his head for the third time when he found a seventh year Durmstrang girl sleeping in the corner behind an armored skeleton, hiding in the shade. "Excuse me, miss," he said softly, tapping her on the cheek. "If you're going it sleep, you should go to Madame Pomfrey."

She woke up, her eyes a little bloodshot. "Where is she?" she asked, getting up in one fell swoop. "Oh, aren't you Solo? Illya's lover boy. It's good to meet you. I am Anya."

"Charmed. Classes are about to start, so if you need, I'll take you to the infirmetry."

Napoleon held out an arm for her, but she swatted away, such an initimate act from a stranger. "I can walk," she said, gesturing for him to lead the way. "Besides, I would break Illya's heart if I take you away."

Napoleon chuckled, walking now. "No worries," he told her, happy to know that others knew of his status with Illya. He was worried that the Durmstrang students would not like him or hate Illya for their bisexuality and polygamy. It was not very common in many cultures, magic or not, especially in Europe, and there was many stigmas against them. 

"Don't you worry about being hunted," Anya said, as if she could read his thoughts from the look on his face. "I am Illya's friend, and we look after each other. Besides, no one would touch Headmaster's grandnephew. Oleg is terrifying man. That and people like Illya. He's quiet and doesn't use status against anyone."

Napoleon let out a silent sigh of relief. "That's nice to know," he said almost lamely, smiling. 

"But you must still be careful. Now since Illya has two lovers, others might try to take your place. Not Teller's though. Illya tells stories, and she is bomb. Nobody wants to detonate bomb, you know? You paved another way to Illya's heart, but your place is not solidified. You're just new competition."

He laughed, nodding in appreciation of advice. "I'll see to that I'll stay. I really like Illya. He's very beautiful."

Anya grumbled, them reaching the infirmetry. "I am friend," she told him sternly. "I don't need to listen to love spewing of friend. Keep to yourself, Solo!" 

Again, Napoleon laughed, his voice echoing off the walls as they entered. To his surprise, there was already a few more Durmstrang students out of commission, and a helper amongst them. 

 _"Bonjour, Mademoiselle,"_ Napoleon greeted first, pressing a kiss on Gaby's cheek. It had only been a month, and yet this was now a habit. 

"Hello, Mister," Gaby replied, returning the affection. 

The Durmstrang boy laying in the infirmetry bed closest to her stuck out his tongue in disgust. "Get a room, you two," he said, his fellow schoolmates jeering in good humor. "This places is to cure illnesses, not cause it."

Gaby grinned innocently. "You're absolutely right, Aldolfo," she replied, taking Napoleon by the hand to leave the room. "It's best to leave you suffering from hangovers, but shouldn't we let a little bit more sunshine in to lighten the atmosphere?" 

Anya's tired eyes widened in fear. "Neumann, you have angered Teller!" she shouted, ducking behind a bed curtain. "Save yourselves!" 

With one smooth movement, Gaby whipped out her wand, and the window curtains pulled open, letting in the bright sunlight of the morning after Halloween. There was the sound of the several hungover Durmstrang students groaning in pain and regret as they tried to hide from the sun like vampires. There was a lot of cursing in a few different languages, and Gaby took them all in stride, almost catwalking out of the infirmetry. 

Napoleon barely heard the voice of Madame Pomfrey coming back in and scolding everyone for being so loud over the laughter of dear Gaby. 

"Lovely workmanship," he said, smiling as they continued walking. They had the first class of the day together. "I see that Durmstrang notices your signature before you even do it. Very impressed."

"Why, thank you," Gaby said, pressing her shoulder against Napoleon's. "I've almost been expelled from Beauxbatons a few times because I didn't want to keep my temper in check, but Waverly always managed to persuade Vinciguerra not to. I think Illya told his friends, and they're a little afraid of me. I think he tells them like a mother tells about her child to her friends."

They arrived at Flitwick's Advanced Charms hand in hand, just as lessons wee about to start. "Ah, Mister Solo, Miss Teller, please take your seats," the professor said, noticing their entrance. He gestured his wand at their hands with a raised eyebrow. 

"I'll miss you, Miss Teller," Napoleon said, pressing a kiss on her hand, as the only seats left were apart. 

"And I, Mister Solo, will not," Gaby replied, teasing. Their classmates laughed, delighted by the two's play. 

.

.

.

The announcement for the first part of the Tournament came soon, a month actually in November when the sky in the Great Hall showered leaves in shades of red, yellow and orange. Everyone came in excited and hungry. 

"The first event," Waverly announced, his voice reaching throughout the Hall, "will be in two weeks this Saturday. Everyone is invited to attend, and to the chapmpions, remember to keep your wits about you and your airs, have an eye for danger, and hold your wands high. I wish you all the best of luck and may you make your school proud."

The Hall cheered and began to chatter excitedly about what the first challenge might be. Some suspected dragons like the last time, like when  _Harry Potter_ was in the Tournament, but others thought that would only make things boring if they had to reuse ideas. Illya's friends, on the other hand, started making bets, mostly with money but a few offered valuable objects.

"Hey, Kuryakin," Anya called out, "don't lose. I bet entire month's allowance on you, ya? Win so I can buy Nonna gift for being so pretty."

"Or you could just not bet and buy her something with what you have already," Illya counted, crossing his arms. 

"But I need to buy myself something nice for being so pretty too! Don't be stingy!"

"We don't have to worry," Dimitri said, placing an arm over the blond's shoulders. "Our king will win. He's best in our school, and Drumstrang is best of all three schools. We will crush Beaxbaton and Hogwarts like bugs. We will hunt tiger in honor of his victory."

"I don't think they have tigers here," Christovich said, taking a sip of his cup filled with vodka he snuck in. Anya secretly gestured him to fill her cup, but it was only a little. "But we'll celebrate and invite Teller and Solo to decorate his arms. Make them wear white. They make for lovely brides."

Illya blushed in embarrassment. "Isn't this going too fast? Gabbie and I have only known Napoloen for few months, and I'm far too young to think about marriage, you oaf," he said, though his voice had grown soft. "And who's to say they'd want to?"

Anya giggled, poking her friend on the cheek. "Aw, our groom is getting cold feet before his own wedding day," she teased. "You're big fool if you think  _those two_ would refuse you now. Nonna and I would marry you if we were interested in men, but luckily, we're not."

"Good man, Illya, you are good man," Christovich agreed. "Don't worry, I'll have this all planned. Win first challenge and I'll get them both to wear white for you."

"I'll get bouquet," Dimitri joined in, laughing. "We will decorate dorm room and invite everyone. It will be great engagement party. Just make sure your propose, or unless you want us to do it for you, Illya?" 

"You will not!" Illya protested, feeling flustered. His friends were too meddlesome, planning his life for him as if it was theirs, though he wasn't exactly against the idea . . . Oh, no, he was too far gone, but it didn't make sense!

And what would Gabbie think? Perhaps she was just playing with Napoleon, letting him have his fun because it was fun for her. She might truly not like the idea of Napoleon being added to the picture completely, and Illya would choose her first because he had promise himself to her, that she would have his attention first and only.

"Good idea," Anya cut in on Illya's thought, drinking the rest of her drink and grabbing a piece of bread. She slunk out of her seat at the table, giving her friends a wink. "You'll need rings to propose, I will get you them. I must write to my brother immediately for his help. Be glad, Illya, you will be proposing like proper gentleman."

She walked away before Illya could stop her, not believing what he was hearing. He was left to blink in shock, making Dimitri and Christovich laugh. 

"Ja, watch us, King Illya," Dimitri joked, though how serious was questionable, "we are your loyal subjects. We will help you win, wed, and bed." He said the last part with a wink, which only made Christovich laugh even harder and call attention to himself.

"I'm going to curse you if no one stops talking now," Illya warned, huffing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank Gods, Illya has some good friends.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my work(s), please check out my Twitter and consider supporting me: [@kappachyun](https://twitter.com/kappachyun?s=09).


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